


Flower of Jamaica

by JehanetteProuvaire



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Darcy goes to the West Indies, F/M, First Kiss, Pre-Canon, maybe he'll show up if I expand this, non-canon, not sure which but I didn't bother with Will Turner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 11:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17263547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanetteProuvaire/pseuds/JehanetteProuvaire
Summary: Fitzwilliam Darcy accompanies his friend Charles Bingley to Jamaica, expecting only to spend a little time there before returning back to London. Instead, he finds himself enchanted by the governor's daughter.





	Flower of Jamaica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a home in the West Indies.

At least, so Bingley seemed to think, and he had dragged Darcy along for the ride.

“Isn’t it exciting!” he’d said on the third day, when all they could see about them was the blue sea and the bluer sky.

“Exhilarating,” Darcy had managed, and was promptly sick over the side.

All told, it wasn’t entirely a wretched journey. After leaving the Canary Islands, Darcy’s seasickness largely abated, and while he was not keen on admitting such to Bingley, by the time they were halfway across the Atlantic, he was very nearly enjoying himself.

(It was not, for once, pride which kept him silent. It was very nearly impossible to be too prideful around Bingley, whose good cheer seemed not only to protect him from pride himself but also occasionally infected those about him. Darcy was not, thankfully, infected yet, but he did not want to give Bingley any encouragement that would cheer him further. Someone had to balance out the young man, and it seemed the only person willing to do so was him.)

Darcy had never thought he might enjoy spending any sort of time on a ship. His chiefest joy came from reading, and while he had brought a small collection of books, as they days passed by he found himself less and less interested in their pages. It wasn’t on account of his having spent the first third of the journey shut up in his cabin with them -- or not just that, anyway -- but on account of the Atlantic weather.

Specifically, its difference from England.

Darcy had never been away from England in his life, and he had certainly never been so far from it as to be incapable of seeing the shore. The world suddenly seemed much larger than it ever had before, and once he could look at the horizon without feeling as though he might be sick, the size seemed more exhilarating than dizzying. He wrote an endless letter to Georgiana, describing all he had seen, stopping only when he realized she would want to hear about more than the size of the sea. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the supply of paper might be like in Port Royal, and even if it was sufficient, he had no intention of sending a novel to Georgiana, enjoy it thought she might.

Besides, he had no doubt he would remember it well enough to describe it to her on his return to London. The sun was brighter than anything he had seen before, and the air was warm enough that after a few days he found himself forced to wear nought but his shirtsleeves.

And once he was in his shirtsleeves, well, he might as well pitch in with the labor.

That thought, he had to admit, did not necessarily follow. It hadn’t even for Bingley, who was more than content to be a passenger, even if he was a particularly inquisitive passenger. He had spent the first leg of the journey asking what they were doing at every moment, and it seemed some were willing enough to explain that he could tell Darcy in the evening. He’d been thrilled to see something so new to him, and Darcy had been grateful for some distraction from his stomach.

He hadn’t expected to actually learn anything, but when one of the sailors called for a hand with the mainsail and Darcy was the closest man, he stepped in to help with only the slightest of second thoughts. The sailor was surprised, but welcomed the aid, and the next day Darcy found himself more warmly welcomed by the other men.

By the end of the journey, he would have callused hands and a tanned face, but he found himself curiously content with the notion.

* * *

One would have thought that living in Port Royal would mean being separate from the sort of social life young ladies might have in England, but Elizabeth had found that was not quite true. She certainly couldn’t make a debut before the king here, not unless the king should choose to make a journey across the Atlantic, but there were still some Englishmen and women on the island, and some wealthy Americans sometimes sailed south from Virginia and the Carolinas.

Not that she would be permitted to freely associate with Americans, but at least they were only a step away from being Englishmen. It wasn’t as though they were the Spaniards who lived in Cuba or the Frenchmen of Saint-Domingue. 

She did have to admit she would rather wed any of them than one of the naval men her father kept presenting her before. Her reasons were perfectly rational, even if her father would never understand what it was to be a young woman and therefore could never grasp those reasons.

The young men in Cuba and Saint-Domingue were _young_ , while the naval men far enough advanced in their careers to impress her father were twice her age at least. They were wealthy, but most importantly, they were close by. She wouldn’t have to fret about their sailing off and leaving her alone for weeks or months on end, if they ever returned at all. They wouldn’t have a young woman -- possibly another wife -- in port on another island, or if they did, it would be far easier to find out. What did it matter if she was a businessman’s wife rather than an admiral’s? In all else but society’s esteem, she would be far more comfortable.

But society’s esteem was all her father seemed to see, even on the far-flung island of Jamaica. There were days when she felt as though she might lose her mind entirely.

If it weren’t for the ships coming and going, she might well have. They were enough to break up the monotony of her days, and the gossip they provided was enough to keep her occupied. More often than not, the news was from other islands or from the colonies to the north, but every so often a bit of news slipped through from England or some other European country, and she devoured them like sweets.

The news that a pair of Englishmen had arrived to take up residence on Jamaica was news that she wanted to savor.

It was, of all people, her father who gave her the news. “Charles Bingley,” he said over breakfast. “That is his name. His companion’s I cannot recall, but he cannot be quite so important. It is, after all, Bingley who you will marry.”

Elizabeth looked up from her food in surprise. “Marry? But Father, I haven’t yet met him.”

Her father chuckled. “Has that stopped me before?” When he saw the surprise on her face, he added, “My dear Lizzy, please don’t think I’m entirely blind to what you think of me. You may have your secrets -- every daughter does -- but your opinion of me will never be one. I know well enough what you think of Commodore Norrington as well, though I hope you might attempt to understand why I would wish the two of you wed.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks felt warm. She had understood, though she had never bothered to try seeing things from her father’s perspective. She hadn’t imagined he might try seeing the world from hers. “You’ll have me marry Mr. Bingley instead, then?”

“I think he’ll suit your tastes better, particularly if he intends to make Port Royal his home rather than returning to London. Elizabeth Bingley may not sound as fine a name as Elizabeth Norrington, but we must all make sacrifices in our time.” Her father chuckled. “I ought to add that, from all I have heard, he is a fair-faced man.”

“Then I shall certainly look to like.”

“If looking liking move?” When she gaped at him, he outright laughed. “You are not the only one in this family to be familiar with the Bard’s works, Lizzy. I would have thought you might give me some credit.” He got to his feet. “I’ll host a dance to welcome him and his friend at week’s end. I hope you’ll be prepared to be charming.”

* * *

Netherfield, Bingley called his home, and Darcy couldn’t entirely fault that name. It was indeed on the nether area of a map, and as for a field… well, it certainly had one. No one could disagree with that.

It was simply a rather small field, especially compared to what Darcy was accustomed to. He could have fit all of Netherfield in the grounds of Pemberley and still found room for a field of oats.

Bingley loved it.

“By Jove,” he said the first morning, standing on his doorstep as he looked out at the road. “The climate this place has! I doubt I’ve ever lived someplace quite so warm. Imagine what the winters must be like!”

“I imagine they’ll still have you sweating through your shirt,” Darcy said. His voice was very likely the driest thing on the island.

Bingley, being Bingley, laughed. “Nonsense! I imagine the winters are far milder than this. In any case, they must have some form of comfortable fabric to wear. I can’t imagine any Englishman would remain here if he had to wear wool in every season.”

Darcy could, but he held his tongue. It was nothing more than his own bitterness over the heat affected his temper, and he had no wish for Bingley to try to cheer him up. Very likely the man would attempt to do so regardless of what Darcy said, or even if he said nothing at all.

Sure enough, as Bingley returned to the breakfast table, he said, “I’ve a surprise for you, you know. It ought to draw you out of how glum you’ve been.”

“Glum?”

“Aye, glum. You’ve been dour ever since we arrived. It doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s the weather,” Darcy said. “I’m not used to it. And you can’t scold me any longer for whatever bad habits I may have taken from the sailors, not if you’re saying ‘aye’. Before I know it, you’ll start calling me ‘mate’.”

“Heavens forfend!” Bingley could only hold a serious expression for a moment before breaking out laughing. “You shall never catch me swearing, just as I shall never determine what weather might suit you. It’s been nothing but clear skies here since we arrived.”

Clear, humid skies. At some point, it would rain, and Darcy had little doubt that when it did, it would flood the island. “You mentioned a surprise. Did you intend to spoil it now, or force me to wait?”

“You ought to be prepared for it, I suppose,” Bingley said, settling into his chair to eat. “The governor of this place -- Swann, he’s called -- has invited the both of us to a ball. It’s our welcoming, I suppose, though I can’t imagine it will be anything like the balls we had in London. It’s a good thing Louisa isn’t here, nor Caroline. I shouldn’t like to see them turn their noses up at what this place can offer.”

So he had brought Darcy, who never turned his nose up at anything.

If it weren’t for the fact that he had made the decision of who should accompany him before they’d set out, Darcy would have thought the heat had affected his friend’s mind.

“Have you any notion who will be in attendance?”

“Not the foggiest,” Bingley replied, “but I imagine Swann’s daughter will be there. From all I’ve heard, she’s quite lovely. I’ll have to be sure you have at least once dance with her.”

Dancing was the last thing Darcy planned to do, but if Miss Swann was indeed quite lovely, Bingley would more than likely be lost in her eyes all night and forget the whole endeavor. If nothing else, a dance would allow him to meet people beyond the locals, and Georgiana would be glad to hear of it.

The excitement of the voyage aside, Darcy often found himself wishing he had remained in London.

* * *

The dance came all too quickly, even as the days stretched on until it arrived. Elizabeth hadn’t the slightest chance to meet Bingley or Darcy before then, which she supposed was all for the best. It would make their arrival at the party all the more exciting if she only had hearsay about them rather than any certain knowledge.

The only trouble was that she didn’t know whether she would survive the endless three days until she could meet them.

When the day did finally arrive, Elizabeth all but shut herself in her room to prepare. She dressed simply -- she had little other choice -- but still tried to show she could look as fine as any London lady. She hadn’t the faintest idea what London ladies looked like these days, but she could imagine their finery, and she doubted one bit of it could stand up to the island’s warmth. They would swoon from the heat, while she remained cool and comfortable.

She wore a white dress and had white flowers woven into her hair. Were it not for the black lace at the hem and collar to create a bit of contrast, she might have looked rather like a flower herself, blossoming under the island’s moonlight.

That thought tempted her to pull off the lace and cast it aside, but she hadn’t time for that. The last thing she wanted was to tear the dress in her haste, especially now.

Someone tapped at her door, and the maid who had been dressing her hurried to answer it. Elizabeth took the chance to pull a few curls onto her neck before brushing them aside once more. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to appear both artless and beautiful. She wasn’t even certain whether she wished to.

Her maid returned to her. “All is ready,” she said. “Will you go downstairs and join the party, Miss Swann?”

It was what she had been waiting for since she had heard about it. “I will,” she said, and glided down the stairs to the main hall of the house.

She hadn’t dared to venture in it all day, and now that she stepped within, it was utterly transformed. Though it was normally tidy enough to befit her father, the servants had now cleaned it so it practically shone. Lush plants had been brought in and placed in pots, and flowers hung all around the wall. Paradise had been created within four walls, and the sight of it took Elizabeth’s breath away. She hesitated, one had to her chest, and then she caught sight of two men standing at the other door, waiting to enter.

It was plain enough they were Mr. Bingley and his friend. They were the only two men in attendance Elizabeth didn’t know, but more than that, their bearing said quite plainly they were from London. They stood stiffly, looking about as though they hadn’t the faintest idea what to do in such surroundings. They likely hadn’t ever seen such flowers before, and she flattered herself to think they had never been to such a dance, nor seen such a woman as herself.

She already knew which of them she hoped would be Mr. Bingley. He would be the taller one, with dark hair. Though his friend had a pleasant, friendly look to him, the darker man was the handsomer, easily ten times handsomer than Commodore Norrington.

Elizabeth’s father had spotted the two men, and now that he had made his way to the door to speak to them, she had every reason to join the group. She made her way across the hall, pausing to speak to a few friends she met along the way. There were perhaps a dozen people in attendance, and by the time she had exchanged a few words with everyone she wished to, her father and the two men were waiting for her.

The darker man looked rather bored. She hoped he wasn’t the sort to look down on Port Royal simply for being across an ocean from England. Almost in spite of herself, her chin rose a little, and she rather hoped there was a flash of pride in her eyes.

“There you are, Elizabeth,” her father said, gesturing for her to come closer. “Come. I should like you to meet Mr. Charles Bingley and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Charmed,” she said, extending her hand.

The fairer man took it first, bowing over it with a smile and a faint blush, though it could have been nothing more than the heat of the day raising his color. “The pleasure’s mine,” he said. “Ours, really, though Darcy wouldn’t ever dare admit it.”

“Darcy?” Elizabeth glanced toward the darker man, who gave her but a glance in return.

“Yes,” her father said, but he was prevented from answering by the fair-haired man’s bright laugh.

“Just so. I’m Charles Bingley, Miss Swann, and the dour man to my side is Fitzwilliam Darcy. Don’t mind him,” he went on, lowering his voice. “He hasn’t much experience in pleasant occasions.”

The look Darcy shot his friend was as sharp as any knife, and Elizabeth found herself rather pleased that the fair man was Mr. Bingley after all. He might not be quite so handsome, but he was certainly easier to get along with, and that was far more important in a husband than looks.

(Though he was still quite pleasant to behold.)

“It’s a pleasure to have you both here in Port Royal,” she said, and led the men to the dance floor. The music had just begun, and men and women were already partnering. As she held Mr. Bingley’s hand already, Elizabeth hoped they might be each other’s first partners. Mr. Bingley seemed to agree, and he joined her for the dance, leaving Mr. Darcy to find a partner for himself.

* * *

The dance was smaller than the ones Darcy was used to. He shouldn’t have been surprised by that; Port Royal was far smaller than London, smaller even than the country towns where the gentry and nobility gathered between Seasons. If he were to dance with every woman in attendance, he could be gone in an hour, two at the most.

He chose not to dance with anyone.

Even standing by the side, Darcy couldn’t deny that the governor’s house -- the city as a whole -- had its charms. It was too bright and too warm, of course, but if one could embrace that, it would be a comfortable place to live. Even without that embrace, it was still… nice.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen lovelier flowers.

If Bingley were to hear him say so, he would surely say the heat had gotten to his brain. Perhaps it had. He had, after all, been thinking almost nostalgically about life on the ship. He ought to return to London for his own good.

Though there were few in attendance, the inevitable problem with balls still raised its head: the sexes were unevenly matched. There were more women than men, and at every dance, a few of the women were forced to sit out. Every now and then, Darcy caught one or two casting him bitter glances, and he knew well enough he ought to dance with them. It wasn’t right for him to stand around while someone was waiting for a turn on the floor.

That wouldn’t make him change his mind.

Miss Swann, of course, had men dancing with her all evening. First Bingley, then a man Darcy didn’t recognize, then her father, then another unknown man, then Bingley again. For Bingley’s sake, Darcy hoped things were different here than they were in London, for he was paying her far too much attention on their first meeting.

Or perhaps that was the point. Miss Swann was undeniably lovely; even Darcy hadn’t been able to miss those dancing dark eyes. He hadn’t been able to miss the way her father looked at Bingley, either. It was an appraising look, the sort that he had seen often enough directed at him. It was a look meant to judge a man’s worth as a son-in-law, and Governor Swann would no doubt want his daughter to remain in Port Royal rather than be spirited off to London.

He would have to speak to his friend, and quickly. Bingley was just the sort of man to be talked into anything.

It was an hour, perhaps a little more, before Miss Swann approached him. The fact that she had no partner took him by surprise, for he would have thought that, as the governor’s daughter, her hand should have been sought all evening. Even were she not the governor’s daughter, she should have had a young man by her side all the night. She was certainly one of the lovelier women in attendance even if she had, for some inexplicable reason, chosen to wear a dress trimmed in black lace.

It was still a lovely dress, especially on her, and flatteringly cut.

The thought surprised him almost as much as her presence.

Miss Swann looked up at him, laughter on her lips and in her dark eyes. “Are you quite well, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.

“I am, Miss Swann.”

“And you do not wish to know why I should enquire.”

“I imagine you will tell me whether I wish to know or not. Young women who would appear clever are always eager to reveal the proof of their cleverness.”

The look on her face was not quite impish, nor was it irritated. It was somewhere in between, and a very curious look indeed. Darcy was unable to place it before it vanished from her face entirely. “And by saying that, I imagine, you would silence me, all while making me think I am proving myself more clever by saying nothing. You shall not have the advantage of me this time, Mr. Darcy. Despite living in such a secluded place, I am wise to many tricks. I have not spent all my life in Port Royal.”

“I was unaware we were in any sort of battle.”

Again there was that impish look, but this time it seemed less irritated than amused. Again it vanished in a twinkling. “You have not danced with anyone at all tonight, Mr. Darcy. I can only imagine you are ill or injured in some manner, for I cannot believe any friend of Mr. Bingley’s would be so unthinking as to ignore women waiting for a partner.” 

“Not all men have friends who share their opinions, on dancing or anything else.”

“Quite so,” Miss Swann said, “and yet I should have thought men would seek the company of those whose opinions were at least somewhat in harmony. You and Mr. Bingley seem to be more discordant than harmonious.”

Darcy bowed slightly. (The motion took his gaze from her dark eyes and flushed cheeks. He hadn’t realized how intently he had watched both.) “I was unaware you were such a skilled observer of men, Miss Swann. My compliments to you. In the space of an hour, you have read all there is to read between myself and Mr. Bingley.”

Miss Swann’s cheeks had flushed still further now. “It does not take much skill to read what is presented in clear script, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley has not refrained from a single dance, regardless of his partner. You, however, have ignored the charms of every woman in attendance. That would appear to be an obvious -- and, dare I say, irreconcilable -- difference between the two of you.”

“It is clearly not irreconcilable, as we remain friends even now.”

“Indeed. It is very curious.”

They studied one another for a while, though Darcy ventured a hope that his study of Miss Swann was considerably less overt than hers of him. She was not blatant about her interest, but there was certainly a lack of subtlety in her expression, one which would surely have been removed had she any access to London society at all.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Miss Swann said finally, “and I’ve little doubt we’ll see more of one another. I quite enjoy Mr. Bingley’s company, and as the two of you are such good friends, I shall almost certainly have to learn to enjoy yours as well.” With that, she was on her way, leaving Darcy silent.

It was the sort of parting he didn’t care for at all.

* * *

Elizabeth stole from the dance.

She had always liked that phrase, especially when she was able to use it to describe herself. While she didn’t want to be a thief -- at least, no more than any other young woman did -- there was something terribly exciting about taking herself away from everyone else, belonging solely to herself. It was almost as though she had been stolen before, and now she was reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

Some girls, she’d heard, went to sea for that purpose. Elizabeth didn’t know whether she could do the same. It wasn’t a question of daring -- she had that in spades, or hoped she did -- but a question of reality. It was a hard life for a girl on her own, and Elizabeth had no intention of placing herself at the mercy of any sailor. If she had to place herself at the mercy of a man at all, it would be Mr. Bingley, or someone like him. He, at least, was pleasant company.

But wouldn’t it be better not to have to place herself at the mercy of any man?

Elizabeth shook away the thought. Such was the way of the world, and to question it would only bring about trouble. Dreams of running off to sea were for children, not young women on the verge of marriage, and she couldn’t afford to lose herself in them. She had to remain firmly grounded in the real world. She had to learn how to manipulate it to suit her own needs.

She had to start paying attention when she was outside on her own.

Elizabeth had come out for a breath of fresh air, and she very much hoped whoever else was in the garden with her was there for the same purpose. It was likely -- warm as the night was, the dance had grown warmer still -- but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing ahead to other possibilities. She could be robbed. She could be murdered. Her best hope was that Mr. Bingley had come out to ensure she was all right, or that he would be coming out soon.

Her best hope really would be for her father or another young woman. It wouldn’t do to be caught out alone with a man, even one she did intend to marry.

Of course, they might not have to get caught…

Her heart raced from both trepidation and excitement, and she turned, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t be able to tell just how badly her palms were sweating. It would be all right. It had to be all right.

It was Mr. Darcy.

The gasp that escaped Elizabeth came as much from relief as from disappointment. It would have to be him, wouldn’t it? Well, if all went well, she would not have to face him terribly often. He seemed the sort of man who would return to London just as soon as he could.

And if Mr. Bingley should happen to go with him? Well, Elizabeth would simply find a way to live with that.

Even -- or especially -- if she were by his side.

But Mr. Darcy was not at all who she had hoped to find, here or anywhere. She decided she had caught her breath well enough, at least to see her through the rest of the dance. Raising her chin, she said, “It is certainly a surprise to see you here, sir. I should not want to intrude if you wish for solitude, so I will leave you in peace. Good evening.” She began to walk past him, but before she could, he caught her arm, holding her still.

“Wait,” he said. There was something in his voice Elizabeth couldn’t quite recognize. She had never heard a man sound like that before. His voice was lower than it had been at the dance, and something in it struck her deep within her core.

It did not strike hard enough to keep her from pulling her arm from his grasp. “Mr. Darcy, just what do you intend?” she asked. “Why would you keep me out here with you, alone?”

“I do not know,” he admitted, and reached for her arm again. Elizabeth drew back, and Mr. Darcy took a small step back as well. It was not a flinch; it was hesitation.

She had not thought him the sort of man capable of hesitation.

“If you did want to leave, Mr. Darcy,” she went on, “you chose the wrong door. The front door was the other.”

“I’m well aware.” His voice sounded more like it had before: wry and sarcastic, but never less than civilized. He likely wasn’t the sort of man who could ever be anything less than perfectly civilized. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was nothing if not a perfect example of British society.

And what, then, was she? A flower of Jamaica? An English rose? Or something in between?

“You could go over the wall, though I cannot promise you’ll be able to easily find your way back. Port Royal can be a treacherous place for those unfamiliar with its streets.”

“I’m certain.”

Still he was watching her, and she could not manage to take her eyes off of him. The moon didn’t shed quite enough light for her to see him clearly, but that lack was more than made up for by the lights coming out of the house. His dark eyes reflected the yellow-orange lamplight, but it seemed almost as though they were lit from within, glowing with some strange passion the mere thought of which made her breath catch in her throat.

Good heavens. The heat must have affected her brain. Rather than going back to the dance, she ought to go inside and lie down.

But she didn’t. She remained where she was, gazing up at him just as he gazed down at her. Every so often, he blinked, and she noticed his dark lashes brushing against his skin. What a pity, she thought, that he was not Mr. Bingley, or at least of Mr. Bingley’s temperament! If he were, how much more pleasant this meeting would be.

If he were, he would not have followed her out here, nor would he now be gazing down at her so earnestly. Her dances with Mr. Bingley had been delightful, but they had also been rather light and airy. That was all well and good, but she now found they lacked the substance she felt now. Something -- she knew not what -- kept her rooted to the ground, not so much immobile as frozen.

That was a lie. She knew precisely what it was. It was that look in Mr. Darcy’s eyes, the parting of his lips as though he would speak, the sensation that everything in the world had fallen still, surrounding this moment.

Elizabeth was all too aware of her warm breath passing over her lips. She was all too aware of how Mr. Darcy’s breath must hold that very same warmth.

She had never thought about a man’s lips before. She had never had any reason to think about a man’s lips before.

She really shouldn’t be thinking about a man’s lips now.

“Mr. Darcy --”

“Miss Swann --”

They cut each other off and paused, staring at each other. Neither offered to let the other speak first, and Elizabeth felt quietly certain that if she were to speak, Mr. Darcy would begin to speak at the same time, and his voice would surely overpower hers. A man without the decency to dance when women were waiting, without the decency to leave her alone in the garden rather than inviting gossip and potential scandal by joining her, would surely not have the decency to let her speak first without interruption. 

Let him speak first, then. She could respond to whatever he had to say.

But Mr. Darcy said nothing. He only reached forward and took her hand.

Elizabeth had never had her hand taken by a man before, not thus. It was warm -- as warm as her own -- and somehow larger than she had expected, even though she had seen it. Somehow, with it wrapped about her own hand, it seemed larger than it had before. She could not possibly explain it, nor did she want to. Perhaps this, then, was one of the mysteries her mother would have told her about that existed between men and women.

It did not seem, on consideration, a particularly important mystery. Even so, Elizabeth could not help but think that it was very important indeed.

She stepped closer to Mr. Darcy. He stepped closer to her. She didn’t know whether he had intended to do so or was doing so because she had moved first or was moving completely unconsciously. She preferred to think he didn’t know either. It made the moment more beautiful if neither knew what the other intended but each were simply moving in response to the other without knowing what would come next or hoping for anything. Whatever would come would come, as though it had been fated.

Elizabeth had never before believed in fate. She didn’t know, and she couldn’t imagine Mr. Darcy did, either. At this moment, she wasn’t entirely certain what she believed in, only that something was happening between the two of them and there was no way to turn it back, even if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to. She hoped he wouldn’t either.

It was entirely possible someone was watching them. It was entirely possible everyone was watching them. If that were the case, Elizabeth was dooming herself with what she had in mind.

If it were the case, she was already doomed, and nothing could save her now.

She rose up onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his, not caring if they were completely alone or all of Port Royal had its eyes on them.

And then the heavens opened up.

* * *

The rain was something of a mercy, one that Darcy hadn’t realized he would need. It poured over him, soaking through his clothing and pressing his hair onto his scalp, but it also cooled him. He had known he was growing too warm, but he hadn’t realized just how badly he needed relief. Miss Swann had woken something in him he had not expected, something he had hardly known existed.

And to think, it had come from nothing more than the effect of a pair of dark eyes in a pleasing face.

His eyes opened -- when had he closed them? -- and he saw Miss Swann gazing up at him. Her lips were slightly parted and dotted with rain, and all at once the heat came rushing back to him, burning into him as though it had never left. The rain had plasted her hair to her head as well, and while that was hardly a flattering look, it had also made her white dress cling to the outlines of her body. He wanted to look away and take it all in at once, and he found himself frozen with indecision, unable to choose.

Had he thought the black lace wasn’t fitting to her dress? He would never admit he had been wrong, even on that score, but the change in circumstances could also change his opinion. He hoped there would be little shame in admitting that. It now stood out beautifully, a striking contrast against the white.

“Miss Swann,” he gasped, but she pressed her fingers against his lips. They were cool and wet from the rain, and he fell silent at their touch.

He couldn’t resist such a soft touch. He doubted any man could. It was all he could do not to press his lips against her fingers and kiss them. The urge surprised him, and yet… what red-blooded man would not hunger for such? He could all too easily hear the village pastor warning him about temptation. He had listened, as any dutiful boy might, but never given much thought to what the words meant. Surely temptation couldn’t be all that hard to avoid. Only the weak would give in, surely.

Well, either Miss Swann was the greatest temptress since the serpent or he was weaker than he had thought.

Or he had been wrong.

“I know you’ll tell me I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice clearly audible even through the pounding rain. “You’re right. It was unbecoming of a lady to act in such a manner, and I’ve no doubt frightened you off from Port Royal entirely, but -- Mr. Darcy, what _are_ you doing?”

What he was doing was precisely the thing he oughtn’t do and pressing gentle kisses against her fingers. Miss Swann didn’t draw her hand away, nor did she resist when he took her hand and drew it up just enough for his lips to press against her palm.

A lack of resistance didn’t necessarily mean anything. Even the fact that she had kissed him before didn’t necessarily mean anything. A woman could change her mind as easily as the moon changed the tides, and a man taking liberties with her -- even seemingly welcome liberties -- could cause her mind to change all the more quickly. He ought to know; that was precisely what had happened with Georgiana.

“May I continue to kiss you?” he asked, his words muffled slightly by her palm. “May I take this liberty?”

“If I didn’t want you to, I wouldn’t still stand so close.”

Her voice was breathless but the words were bold, and she leaned forward, rising up on her toes once more. Darcy couldn’t imagine that being anything but assent, so he bent down, ready to kiss her again. It would only be a chaste kiss; he could hardly imagine giving any other to a young woman he had only just met.

Miss Swann’s imagination worked quite differently from his, for her hand slipped past his mouth not to cup his cheek but to press against the back of his head. She pulled him down against her, opening her mouth onto his, and his mouth slipped open as well as though he had known all along this was what he was meant to do. She tasted sweet and strange, but not unpleasant, and the feeling of her tongue moving against his sent a thrill all through him. Their clothes were thinner than he was accustomed to in London, and he could feel the heat of her body against him.

She must be feeling the same thing. Darcy wished he could know exactly what she felt.

He could see it on her face when she drew back. Some of it, at least; her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted, as though some part of her mind were still in the kiss. When they came together again, it was in a smile, and he found himself almost smiling in return.

“I think,” she said, “I would enjoy it if you were to remain in Port Royal.”

“I think I would enjoy that as well,” he said, and bent down to kiss her yet again.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The first exchange fic I've ever done. (And finished super early because I'm off work for two weeks. Being a teacher has some perks, I guess.) I was really excited to play around with this pairing, and I'd love to delve into this world again sometime.


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